


A Test in Priority

by queenegeria



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Mr. and Mrs. Smith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenegeria/pseuds/queenegeria
Summary: The Mr. and Mrs. Smith au that we've all been waiting for.





	A Test in Priority

**Author's Note:**

> I'm lowkey very happy with how this turned out
> 
> Warning for violence, though it's all non-fatal

“Honey!” Damen called out as he walked through the front door. “I’m home!”

Silence. 

A memory flashed through his mind of the last time he had said those words. It was after a business trip, the one that took him to Vienna, and upon his return, he was met by Laurent lying on the couch, naked except for the single sapphire earring adorning his ear. It was a… warm welcome. A devilish part of him hoped that the words spurred the same memory in Laurent’s own mind. The thought helped combat the uneasiness he felt knowing that, despite the very different circumstances, that event had happened in the exact same space he was in now. Except this time around, he wasn’t rushing to embrace his husband. He was analyzing exits and vantage points in his own home.

Damen held his gun firmly, sweeping the area for threats. For Laurent. 

In the back of his mind, there was still an ongoing hum of  _ how could you be so stupid?  _ and  _ I can’t believe this _ . He pushed it out of the way. There were things at stake here. He needed focus, just like he did for any other job. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of blond hair. Damen rushed up the stairwell, scanning the area for any sign of movement. When he reached the top, he tucked his body against the wall adjacent to the landing. He calmed his breathing until he was able to focus on the sounds around him, but he couldn’t hear any evidence of his husband’s presence - he’d always thought it was uncanny how silent Laurent could be at times. Now there was far more danger in being snuck up on by Laurent than a kiss to a surprised cheek.

Slowly, he lifted his gun and peered around the corner. He only had a split second from the time he saw another gun appear in his bedroom doorway to duck back behind cover. Immediately after, the sound of gunfire filled the hallway; centimetres away from Damen’s shoulder, the edge of the wall was bitten by bullets, plaster flying everywhere. After a few short bursts, it paused. 

Laurent’s voice. “You still alive, sweetheart?”

Damen huffed a breath. “Your aim is worse than your cooking.”

“Liar. I’ve never cooked for you a day in my life.”

Gunfire resumed, and this time it was semi-automatic, full of stronger ammunition that blew holes in the wall Damen stood against. “Fuck!” he swore and dove out of the way, taking cover in the nearest room. He only had time to tuck himself out of the line of sight of the doorway before Laurent followed him into the office. His gun was up, but he got no shots in before Damen surged out of his hiding place, the landline phone in his hand. He brought it down against Laurent. It was a strong enough blow to give a concussion or break a skull, but as Damen discovered, Laurent was good. He wasn’t able to avoid the attack entirely, but he was agile enough to move the brunt of the blow to his shoulder, knocking his gun out of his grasp but keeping him on his feet. Long enough to grab a makeshift weapon of his own. 

Laurent handled the letter-opener skillfully. Damen would have admired his expertise if he wasn’t currently attempting to slice Damen’s throat. Damen grabbed Laurent’s wrist hard, stopping the motion in its tracks. With his other hand, he grabbed the handgun strapped to his thigh and brought it up to Laurent’s head. Laurent kneed him in the groin. Damen smashed him against the wall.

In their new position, Damen took liberties. “Bring back memories,  _ sweetheart _ ?” 

Laurent was breathing hard. “Not really. Let me put you on your back and then we’ll talk.”

“Cheeky. But we both know what you like.”

“Yeah,” Laurent said. He knocked his head against Damen’s chin, throwing him backwards. “I like winning.”

In the second it took for Damen to regain his bearings, Laurent regained the letter-opener and slashed Damen’s arm, causing blood to seep through the tear in his dress shirt. Damen moved out of the way of his next attack. He punched Laurent in the stomach. And then in the face. And then threw him back into a file cabinet to give him enough time to get his gun. When he rose and aimed, he was greeted with a mug of two-day-old coffee being thrown in his face. Anyone else would have recoiled in defense, but Damen knew that those precious seconds were life or death. Instead of reacting, he dodged. When he was able to open his eyes, he found that it was the right thing to do, because the letter opener embedded itself in the wall behind the spot in which he had just stood. 

Damen had no time to process the fact that his husband had just attempted to spear him. He moved to retrieve the gun Laurent had dropped before he could get there first. Seeing his plan, Laurent retreated, darting out of the room and back down into the centre of the house. Damen went after him, sliding down the banister of their staircase. 

“That was the third time you’ve tried to kill me,” he said when he found Laurent in the kitchen.

“Yes, it takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” Laurent replied coolly, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. “Encountering an assassin?” 

“Maybe we should compare notes.”

“You could use them. You blew a hole in a public restaurant last night. Do I need to teach you a lesson in being discreet?”

“Can you blame me? You wrecked my car. I love my car.”

Laurents eyes were like steel. “Why does it matter to you? It’s just a cover.” His lips curled savagely around the words. “Get a new one.”

Damen, who was used to Laurent’s severe quips, heard the segue for what it was and knew a moment before Laurent moved what he was going to do. Laurent grabbed a knife from the holder and launched into a fresh attack, starting the battle anew.

If their skirmish upstairs had been an exploration of each other’s gifts, this bout was a test of them: Where Damen was strong, Laurent was agile. Where Damen was natural skill and good instict, Laurent was a machine of quick calculations. Damen’s body was a weapon. Laurent made weapons out of anything that surrounded him. 

_ This fight would already be over,  _ Damen thought to himself,  _ if Laurent played fair.  _

But he didn’t. He never had. Laurent threw flour in his eyes and pushed chairs in his way, going for the eyes, the throat, everything that said he meant business. Damen, consistently, avoided it and retaliated with his own abilities. Neither of them pulled their punches, and somewhere hidden in all the danger they were putting each other in was the small safety that they were evenly matched. Damen could aim a gun in Laurent’s face because his arm would be knocked aside a moment later. Laurent could stab a carving knife in the direction of his heart because Damen would not let him inside his guard. It was a flurry of action, without emotion or decision-making. 

Together, they did a wonderful job of destroying their house. 

The fight took them from room to room, like a tornado intent on destruction. Furniture became casualties of war, walls became a medley of dents and holes. Damen judo-flipped Laurent through their glass coffee table, scattering an obstacle course of shards all over their living room. Laurent kicked Damen. Damen punched Laurent. They bruised and cut and injured, seeking advantage wherever they could find it. At one point, they took the fight to the ground, rolling their aching muscles across the hazardous floor as they grappled.

A few seconds reprieve in which they stood and readied themselves for the next round. Then, at the same time, they saw it.

A few metres away lie the neglected guns.

It was a mad dash over and around their overturned couch, and they both arrived at the same time, grabbing a weapon, readying it and taking aim in one movement. They faced each other in silent stand-off, handgun against rifle.  Neither of them moved. 

Damen stared Laurent down, his gun trained on the spot between his husband’s eyes. In the stillness following the chaos, he felt the importance of this moment. This was the climax of the battle, of the last twenty-four hours, in which they had learned so much about each other but resolved nothing. Now, with their guns pointed in each other’s faces, they could not avoid the situation any longer. Someone had to take a shot. Someone had to do  _ something.  _

In their destroyed living room, the only sound was the sound of their harsh breathing. Damen took in Laurent’s appearance for what felt like the first time: he had a fat, bloody lip and a bruise forming on his temple. His hair was a mess. His shirt was a disaster of blood stains and small cuts. Damen looked into his blue eyes and thought of his forty-eight hour deadline to take him out. He thought of their first meeting. Their first night together. He thought of the hours spent holding Laurent’s hair away from his face as he got sick from food poisoning. He thought of the way Laurent looked in the mornings, bright with the sunshine streaming through their windows as he leaned over him. Damen thought of his husband’s every flaw and virtue, every mundane moment they spent together, the period of time in which they had grown apart while still living so close. His own desperation to fix it.

When Damen resolved himself, he did not feel like he had made a decision. It felt like a surrender to the fact that he had made up his mind long ago. This was Laurent. And there were only so many options when it came to his husband.

“I can’t do it,” he said, and dropped his gun to the floor. 

Laurent shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. “Pick it up,” he said. “Come on.” His voice broke.  _ “Come on!”  _

“You want it?” Damen asked. “It’s yours.”

Laurent’s hand shook as he hesitated. The get-it-done attitude that drove his actions undoubtedly told him to finish the job, but his face was twisted with pain. For a moment, Damen did not know what he would do. He only knew that he was not capable of killing his husband, and would sacrifice his own life to rid himself of that decision.

As the seconds dragged on, Damen realised Laurent couldn’t do it either.

He knocked Laurent’s gun aside and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Laurent made a wrecked sound of surrender as he melted into it, half moan and half sob. They clutched at each other, their hands moving constantly, seeking any kind of purchase that could bring them closer together. Damen couldn’t remember the last time they had kissed like this. It was open-mouthed and desperate, a clashing of teeth and tongue, and what it lacked in finesse it more than made up for in raw emotion. He felt that Laurent’s lips against his were the only things keeping the world from ending.

It felt right. 

Their problems were not solved, not even close. Damen had no clue how much of his relationship with Laurent had been built on cover stories instead of fact, how many of the details he had missed. They were going to have to redo every conversation they had ever had, and that was if they survived their current situation. By tomorrow, their bosses would have discovered that they didn’t take each other out. By tomorrow, they would have two deadly agencies after them, trying to clean up this mess.

But that was a matter for the morning.

Damen gentled his touch, pressing kisses across Laurent’s jaw and face. He swept a few strands of his husband’s blond hair out of his eyes, mindful of the bruising. “Whatever happens,” he said, and pressed their foreheads together. 

“Whatever happens, I’m choosing you.”


End file.
